88

Subconsciously Yours

Several hours later, it’s time for art class, and I can’t help the bounce in my step. I’ve been itching to finish the painting I started when I first got back. I still have no idea where it’s going, but it’s calling to me. And so is the fact that I need a finished product for my midterm grade.

Before I start, I do what I always do. I arrange my tools exactly how I like them, small, fine ones near the front; bigger ones near the back; all the colors of the rainbow right in front of me. And then I start to paint.

At least today I have a picture in my mind of what I want to paint. Before, it was just a desperate drive to get the background colors right. But today…today I have an image. I don’t know where it came from or where I’ve seen it before—or if it’s something from the three and a half months I have no memory of—but wherever it’s from, it’s clear as day. I don’t need answers to the other questions yet. Not when I can simply paint what I see.

And so I do, mixing color after color, shade after shade, until all the variations of blue and gray and black and white combine on the canvas in front of me. I layer the shades carefully, one tiny color distinction after another, until they form a picture so tightly painted that one tone is practically indistinguishable from another. Until trying to get through the painting means unraveling every single shade of every single color.

I work for hours—well after art class is over—until my hands are sore and my shoulders and biceps are on fire. And still I keep going, still I keep painting, layer after layer after layer, until the picture in my head slowly comes to life on the canvas.

Hudson wakes up from a nap in the middle of the painting, and I expect him to argue with me about the right shade of black again.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches me with unfathomable eyes…and an oddly gentle look on his face.

When it’s finally complete, when I’m finally convinced I’ve done the picture in my mind justice, I put down the paintbrushes. And nearly weep with the relief that comes from lowering my arms.

I stretch out all the kinks, then close my eyes to give my tired brain a break. But when I finally open them, it’s to find Hudson looking straight at me.

“So you remember?” he asks in a tone so tentative that I can’t believe it even came from him.

“No.” I glance back at the painting, my stomach clenching a little at the idea that I might have finally remembered something…even if I can’t identify it yet. Even if it’s just my subconscious poking at me, trying to tell me something. Trying to get me to do what I so desperately want to do—remember. “Do you recognize it?”

“It’s impossible.” Hudson shakes his head as if to clear it. “You couldn’t possibly have painted this if you don’t remember. Not this accurately. Not this perfectly.”

“I felt it,” I tell him, struggling to find a description that will make sense to both of us. “I don’t know how else to describe it. From the moment I’ve been back, this place has been building in my head until I couldn’t not paint it. From the moment I picked up my paintbrush, it was the only thing that felt right.”

I don’t say anything else—there’s nothing else for me to say—and for long seconds, neither does Hudson. Eventually, though, he inclines his head and says, “It’s perfect.”

“You know where it is.” It’s not a question, even though my voice is quieter than his.

“Yes,” he answers.

My breath catches in my chest, my throat. Finally, I’ll know something. Finally, I’ll have one memory to hold on to. It’s not much, but it’s more than I had when I woke up this morning. More than I had when I brushed my teeth or took a shower or picked up my favorite Pop-Tarts in the cafeteria.

But the seconds tick by, and still Hudson doesn’t say anything until, finally, I feel like I can’t take it anymore. Until I feel like even my skin doesn’t fit.

“Are you going to tell me?” I demand, after time has passed and done nothing to alleviate the nerves.

Another silence, this one even longer than the one that came before it. “It’s my lair,” he answers, and there’s a lifetime in those three words.